Phonology
by Miss Chips
Summary: Her voice is so deep and genuine it sends shivers down my spine, 'I hate you, Travis Strong.' But she is not saying that at all; her words instead imply the exact opposite of what she has stated. Dark future TL ficcy.


_Disclaimer: I am insane. Don't sue me please or I will pull the insanity card. MWHAHAHA. . ._

_Author notes: Alright, I am a weird one. Really. I have no life recently, because all my friends are frolicking at the beaches, getting a nice tan while I am stuck with my parents and my physcotic poodle-dog. So, in conclusion, I have written a ton of fanfic. Some of it is utter crap, and most of it is dark and crazy. Kinda like this fic. No, really. . . I'm SO WARNING YOU: this is possibly the weirdest thing I have ever written. But, it just sorta came out. And I kinda like it, although it's slightly screwed and it does have some of the characters oddly uncharacteristic. But, alas! that's the point of the fic. . . aw, but I don't want to give away the plot. So, yeah, take heed: Beyond this point there be dragons. Or, you know, not really, but metaphorically speaking. Um, yeah, I'll stop rambling now. ::Gets the duck tape out and clamps over mouth::_   
  


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**IT** is cynicism and fear that freeze life; it is faith that thaws it out, releases it, sets it free.   
-- Harry Emerson Fosdick 

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**PHONOLOGY**   
  


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I've heard that you never fall out of love with your first love. Sweet innocent love is the epitome of all that is capitalistic free-enterprise society prattle-- pick who you want to love and that person must be it! Either that or you should try and a supply and demand schedule while examining the Production Functions to see if the demand for love is elastic and the supply is inelastic. In that case. . . 

_Tap, tap, tap._ My pencil hits the desk. _Tap, click, tap.___

Maggie Gelbart turns around, glares at my pencil, before saying, her voice sounding a bit like gravy, "Your little drum solo is interfering with my concentration." 

My eyes flutter up to her. She stares at me with large, dark eyes, which are outlined with thick eye-liner, making her eyes look even more separated from her body. Someone says that eyes are the vehicle to someone soul. But I forgot who said that to me; . Sometimes, things become so blurry the only thing that is clear is the Economic drivel in front of me: you have to cost-benefit analyze whether the variable factor will increase the output with the production of your thoughts, but even then you have to analyze the demand schedule and then the marginal. . . 

"You okay?" Maggie asks, finally interrupting my thoughts. She says this as if she knows the answer, her voice low and guttural. There's knowing in her eyes too, because she knows that I'm not going to tell the truth. "Anything you wanna talk about?" 

Yes, there's something I wanna talk about. There's lots of stuff I wanna talk about. Like, what if the ocean is actually a living, breathing thing, trying to solve the human condition? What if it's churning, waving, trying to tell its message day after day, using all its expendable energy while we sit on its shores and drink spritzers and read bad novels? And when did I become a friend of Maggie's? When did I start talking to her in the hallways? When did we start eating lunch together, brooding over our own subjects in silence? Why the hell did I kiss her in the girls' bathroom two months ago? Why-- after I kissed her-- did she just look at me with this calm, nonchalant expression, as if I had just mopped a floor instead of kiss her? 

Why did she say, after I kissed her, "You're so in love with her. Wicked, Travis. You are wicked. . ." 

Glancing over my shoulder, I see someone bent over their economics textbook, their eyes piercing the text. Gold hair, pulled back from her eyes. She had cut it. When had she cut it? I hadn't noticed. Well, maybe I had. Shaking my head, I can't clear my head. 

I hear Maggie Gelbart put her notebook on my desk. She is staring at me-- glowering actually. Her finger traces the spine of her economics book before she growls, "You'd think she'd notice by now." 

My eyes flutter over to Maggie. "Notice what?" 

"Shut-up, Travis," Maggie snaps. Maggie doesn't usually snap. 

"Are you mad, Maggie?" 

Sighing, Maggie raises an eyebrow. "A more appropriate question is, what am I mad about most. . .?" 

Grinding my teeth, I say between clenched teeth, "I'm sorry. I'm real sorry." 

Licking her dark lips, Maggie shakes her head and mop of dark hair flows over her features. "Don't be stupid-- you're not sorry. You've never been sorry." 

"I never made you feel, though." I glance up quickly into Maggie's sad eyes. When did they become so sad? No, Maggie's not sad. I misinteruptated her again. "I didn't, did I? Make you feel, I mean." 

_ Ha, Ha, Ha_ goes Maggie. _ Ha, Ha, Ha._

I smile at her. She is amused. Sean Edmunds stares at her with suspicion. I glare at him. He adverts his gaze quickly. 

Surprised, I raise an eyebrow. When did I become. . . scary? When did Sean Edmunds become frightened of me? 

Maggie is smiling now. She picks up a piece of paper and presses her lips to it, leaving traces of Maggie behind of it. 

"Lipstick is so shamefully romantic," Maggie says while admiring her imprint. She cocks her head at it and frowns before looking up at me. 

No, not at me. Through me. She is looking behind me. Maggie frowns harder, her thick, lip-sticked lips pushed down her face. 

I don't need to see Maggie's expression to know that She's looking at me. I can feel her eyes piercing into my back like hot knives. My skin crawls with impatient writhing, and I can feel my head swimming with irrational thought. 

"Leave it," Maggie warns to me. She's seen my reaction, but she's seen it so many times, she doesn't need to even glance in my direction to know what is coursing through my veins. 

"Ow," I say. 

"Now," says she. 

_Bring- Dong._

"Bell," states Maggie, as if I might not have noticed, before grabbing her backpack and textbook. She slips her headphones on, her textbook in the crook of her arm. Her black eyes glide over to me, looking at me thoughtfully. Swooping down, she kisses me on the cheek, leaving a huge polymer stain on my cheek. 

"You crucify yourself, Travis," she says, but she says it in her normal throaty voice. Unctuously, she runs a hand through my hair before patting me affectionately on the cheek. "Remember, God always looks for one more victim." 

"Don't be stupid. You don't believe in God, Maggie." 

"I never said I did. But you do, whether you will acknowledge it or not. Travis, well, you just drive another nail in everyday." 

I glared at my notebook in front of me, sitting planted to my chair. "So what?" 

"Yes, exactly-- _so what_?" With that, she glides from the room, her dark hair streaming out with her. 

I chew the inside of my cheek before the metallic taste floods into my mouth. Wincing, I realize that I am still sitting in my desk. But, as I watch people file out of the room, the chatter of ininssesant Production factors going with them, I frown at my desktop, not moving. 

Footsteps. _Click, click, click. _ Small, hesitant footsteps. 

I trace a etching in my desk. Such odd cave drawings us humans leave. I mean, what will historians think of when they observe the primordial ooze of our pitiful society? "SARAH LOVES RICHARD". Yes, we will definitely be a society remembered for our grandre and renowned intelligence. 

"Gum?" comes a small voice from behind my back. 

The hairs on my neck stand up, as if I have been electrocuted. Swallowing thickly, I say, "No. . . I don't have any." 

"No, I meant: do you want any?" 

"Uh. . ." There is an awkward pause as I finger the edges of my binder. 

"Well," is the clear voice behind me, " Robbie's doing good." 

"That so?" 

_Squeak, Squeak, Squeak._ Someone grabs a desk and pulls it over towards me. _Squeak, Scratch, Squeak._

She is staring at me again, her eyes piercing through my every inch of skin. 

Damn, I want to say. Dammit! 

Her backpack slams on the musty ground, scattering discarded papers and dustbunnies. She settles herself into the desk before looking at me. No, not looking at me. Looking is too simplistic and inept a word to describe how she stares at me. She is piercing me, grabbing my core and examining it; being cautious and precious with it, but nevertheless, being brutal at the same time. 

Lily Randall is a paradox of conflicting emotions-- dread, anticipation, anger, joy, and. . . 

"How's Ray?" I snap out loud before I realize I have said it. Staring down at my economics book, I become suddenly fascinated with the relations to price and allocation. 

There is a sigh. A sad, irrepressible sigh emits from her lips. A sigh that says, "I should hate you for asking that. But I won't-- no, never for that. Or, really for _anything_." I cringe at it. 

Lily hums a little, bouncing her pencil eraser up and down on the desk. Then, as she stretches out like a cat, she mumbles, "Ray's not so good; we don't talk much, though." 

I look up at her when she says this, surprise probably written all over my face. And, for the first time, I see Lily Randell's face, in all it's captivating beauty. 

Of course she's beautiful-- every teenage boy knows that. But so is Maggie, even though most guys don't bother to see it. No, Lily is different. Lily is exciting, fresh, habitual, virgin, unique. Or not just her, persay. But what she exudes with her large eyes and her lips, which are always pulled in a thin line nowadays, is so tremendous and terrific, it overwhelms everytime I reencounter it. 

Her thin fingers trace the etchings in her own desk and her eyes skim over them, as if she is seeing something totally different from someone's pearl of wisdom: THIS CLASS SUCKS OUT LOUD!! Her eyes are beyond the world, piercing the unknown with cautious bravery. 

I suck the top of my pencil cap to keep me from screaming in glorious agony. 

"Why aren't we friends, anymore, Travis?" 

I contemplate the top of her head as she says this, the gold strands shimmering delicately in the fluorescent school lighting. Biting my lips, I stare at the ceiling before speaking to it, "Were we _ever _friends, really?" 

She stops outlining the etching, pausing at my words. Then, with some gravity, she says, "We must have been. Or something. Well, maybe; oh, Travis, don't ask questions like that!" 

"Why not?" 

"Well. . . just don't." Lily bites her lips before drawing them into a thin line. And then, finally, she stares me in the eye, her own eyes squinted. 

She obviously doesn't find this unnerving. Lily never has. She embraces the intimacy that I shy away from. But I want it so horribly, my eyes water from the sting of it. She is looking at me as if she isn't quite sure if she's confused or hurt. 

_Tap, tap, tap._ Her foot pounds the floor. _Tap, rap, Tap._

"Our relationship never changed, did it, Travis?" She finally asks, before she flicks a piece of shredded notebook paper off her desk. 

I watch the piece of paper fly across the room before crashing on the floor, to live forever with the dustbunnies and discarded class notes. "Everything changes, Lily." 

She is silent for awhile before her desk is scooted closer to mind. Looking down at her, I raise an appraising eyebrow. Lily stares at me as if she doesn't comprehend if I am questioning her; and maybe I am. 

"But. . ." Lily pauses for a second before running her hand over the edge of her desk, sending smooth echoes pounding through my ears-- but maybe that is my heart pounding--, ". . . not everything did change. And that-- _that_-- is what scares me." 

I stare at her, my face an open book. No! I want to scream. Don't go there, Lily! I want to shout. But I don't. Instead, I stare blankly as if I am caught dumb in the headlights. 

"Don't be stupid. Nothing scares you," I finally tease, for the lack of knowing what else to say. 

She chuckles, low and guttural. She sounds like Maggie when she does it, and flashbacks of bathroom kisses flood into my memory. Dark, cynical chuckles in the bathroom. Chuckles mixed with Maggie's voice purring, "Oh, Travis, you should know by now. Not everyone grows up; not really. Wicked Travis. You grew up, but you didn't grow out. And you never will. . ." 

I suddenly have the ingrained urge to cover my ears with my hands before running around the school, humming the Monkey Song insanely to get that laughter out of my head. It was like a bad taste in your mouth; you'd do anything to be rid of it. 

A voice rolls out of Lily, after a few seconds of terrible chuckles, "What you meant was that I wasn't scared of _you_." She shifts her body weight, so that she is looking me straight in the eye. 

Wanting nothing more than to worm myself out of my body, I shift my eyes from her unnerving gaze. Looking at my hands, I dig underneath my fingernails, trying to pry out the icy dirt residing there. "Are you scared of me now?" 

Lily taps her pencil against the desk impatiently at my question before glancing down at her lap. "Scared? No." She looks back up at me, her eyes alight with something ethereal. "But, you're not asking that, Travis. You're asking if I've changed. And that's not true. Or maybe it is; I've changed. But we haven't. Even if Maggie has changed you, changed your clothes, changed your hair, changed your attitude, _we_ will never change." 

"None of this is Maggie's fault. Leave her out of this; she has nothing to do with this." 

"That's untrue. She has something to do with it, Travis." 

I sit up straighter, finally able to look Lily in the eye. Something cold and electric has flooded my body, raising the hair on the back of my neck. Glaring coldly at her, I expect Lily to drop my gaze. Instead, I'm met with a fire that burns blue-hot, her lips pursed in a thin, gray line. Frowning, I growl, "Next thing you'll say is that Ray has nothing to do with this." 

"Oh, of course he does, Travis!" She shouts, her voice choking in her throat. It is hurting her to bring up these subjects up. Well good! I think. But I don't mean it. I never mean what I think in the back of my mind. 

I try to glare at her, but I instantly fail. There is something so mystical and habitual in her expression that my frown instantly softens; I trace the etchings on my desk to show that I am not angry. But Lily still is. 

But not at me. 

_Thump, thump, thump._ Lily's fist pounds the desk fervently._ Thump, crash, Thump._

I stare at her nonchalantly before sighing. She is crying now, large crystal drops slashing on the desk top. On top of TONY AND GLORIA FOREVER!!! How often does she cry? I wonder. Does she sometimes do it like I do, not even realizing that it has happened? Does she cry when no one can see, even herself? And why does that happen? _Why?_

I want to touch her, to hug her. But I can't, because I have no right to. Or perhaps I do, but no right that I can constitute for. The right is somewhere in the gray corners of intangibility and could not be held or found. But it is there, somewhere in the grappling darkness. 

I swallow thickly. "It's not your fault. It's not your fault that Ray fell out of love." 

Her hair engulfing her, Lily speaks through a mouth full of remorse, "But he was never in love, Travis." 

"I know." 

"He didn't want to be a father." 

"You mean, he couldn't be." 

"Whatever," she snaps before looking up at me, her eyes red and yet alarmingly alive. "What difference does _wouldn't _and _couldn't _make?" 

Something strange is bubbling in the pit of my stomach. I try to shake my head, clear the foreboding sweltering in my veins. I want nothing more than to get out that small Swiss army knife tucked away in the secret compartment of my backpack. I want nothing more than to run the slick blade over my skin, to feel the glorious pain. Controlled pain. Pain that was mine. I want no one else's; no one else had any say in this pain. I want to give into that addiction once more. 

I don't want to feel again. Not like this. Not like the way Lily can make me feel. 

But I do. I want to feel like that just once more. To feel the excruciating bliss of the unknown pounding in my head, throbbing underneath my skin. I want to know what it like to, to. . . _be alive._

There has been a silence among us that hurts. Lily's eyes are shut tightly together; she hates feeling sorry for herself. She hates to hate. But she hates so much, it radiates off herself. Of course it's forgiven hate. Lily believes in redemption. I used to, at one time or another. That was until I had punched Ray so hard, I thought I might never stop. A broken nose, they had said. One inch closer and you might have slammed his nose up into his brain, they had said. He could've died, they had said. Oh, Travis how could you! That was Audrey, I think. She was mad; so mad she started to date Ray right after that. 

"Fine!" I had screamed at her that fateful night when she broke up with me. We had dated, I think. Maybe. "Fine! You screw that good for nothing pervert! You deserve each other!" 

"Oh shut-up, Travis!" She had yelled back, her eyes navy and stormy. "It wasn't Ray's choice, you know. Lily didn't have to go get an abortion!" 

"Just like she didn't have to get pregnant, I suppose?" 

"Give it up, Travis. The only reason you're not thinking rationally is because you're still in love with Lily. You've always been hung-up on her. And I knew it too! What a fool I've been, thinking you might someday care for me. Now I know: you'll never gave up on her. And it's twisted and sick! She's not your property, Travis!" 

My fingers had been clenched so tightly together my fingernails were drawing blood. "Lily Randall is, and has never been, my property. And Lily is only the person in this insane world that deserves better than what she gets. In love with her or not, she deserves better than Ray Brennan." 

Audrey was crying, or something. I didn't care; I just really wanted to slap her. "You don't even care about Ray's side of the story. You're a cold-hearted son of bitch! You don't know about how terrible he felt. You don't know he was was so confused and he felt like there was no one out there for him. And I just happened to be there for him. That's all. . . it's not what you think it was Travis. We didn't have sex or anything. . ." 

"Fuck. You. Audrey." That was the last thing I had ever said to her, and I never regretted not talking to her again. 

But, looking at Lily now, I realize that I could never hate Ray. Well, maybe I could, but not in the way that I wished I could. Ray wasn't an indecent, sex-crazed, pompous idiot that I so wanted him to be. Even Lily, after their break-up had said, her voice low and beautiful, "He's a great guy. He's my best friend. But that was the problem. We got confused. I got confused. But love's like that sometimes: blurring itself together so that no one can tell what love is which, or even if there is a difference. But there is. Shit, there is." 

She is wiping her eyes, her big hand rubbing her eyes so that they are blistered and shiny with clean skin. I stare at her, my eyes suddenly threatening tears. Biting my lip, I watch as she sniffles loudly, ungracefully. I want to laugh, but instead I say, my voice uncharacteristically emotional, "You would've made a great mother, Lily." 

Her gaze on me now is haunting. Everything about her is haunting. Her lips purse, but there is a look of defiance in the knitting of her brow. "There's too many 'would haves' in my life, Travis. I would have done great things if I wasn't stupid and gotten pregnant," She says this with a blank face, as if the cut is so deep, it is nothing more than a grimace and a dull ache. 

I stare at her, my eyes shining. Something scalding and liquid squirms down my cheek. 

"Don't cry, Travis. Please don't cry. You are the only strong thing in my life right now." 

Another hot tear flows out of my eyes, all without my consent. I wipe it away hastily, surprised at my own actions. Looking at my damp hand, I felt something ancient tug at my heart. Something I didn't know I could ever feel again: desperation. 

"Is this it, Lily?" I mutter, something hinged on my voice that I cannot explain. 

"Is this what, Travis?" But she asks this as if she already knows the answer. 

I stare at her, but not at her. I stare beyond her, into her eyes, into her soul. Someone told me eyes are the vehicle to someone's soul. And I remember who told me that. Robbie. It was Robbie, when our friendship was more than nods in the hallways, or in acquaintances who manage a radio-station together. Ah, yes, RFR is still on. We have it today after school, but it has transformed in little more than a fake facade. We are Cougar Radio. We are fakers who pretend we have something fresh and new to say, when all we are doing is repeating trivial things that are funny. 

_Ha, Ha, Ha_ goes the caller. RFR is real funny. 

But we aren't. We are so_ not _funny, it's sickening. 

But nothing is so sickening as the trepidation and frustration rising in my throat. I want nothing more than to scream in agony, to scream in utter desperation for things that are so within reach, they are tantalizing. But, there is little to say other than: "Is this it for life? Is there nothing more?" 

"Life is what you make it. . ." 

"Bullshit, Lily!" I scream at her, finally. I stand up, pushing the desk away from me. I push the idiotic etchings away from me; the desk goes clanking across the room with a parade of noise. She is staring at me with that look again, as if I have crossed the line she hates. 

"Utter crap, Lily! Life is nothing more than a string of parades. It's some kind of predestined crap that we have to follow. We are a pawn in fate's sick and twisted game. And there's nothing I can do about it. Nothing! I couldn't love you when I had the chance. And I couldn't save you when your relationships blow up in your face. And now, now, I can't fall in love with Maggie. I can't ever fall in love with someone ever again." 

Lily's face is so calm, I have the ingrained urge to slap her. But not really. I would hate myself forever if that happened. No, I only wanted to see something on her face other than complete aggravation. 

She stands up quickly, so quickly, I blink twice. She grabs her backpack, throws it over her shoulders before snapping her eyes over towards me. "You know that's untrue, Travis. All of it. Life is. . . is a paradox of everything. You told me that. You used to tell me a lot of things, Travis. You used to make me think. But now you don't think. You, you. . ." 

"Feel?" I ask gutturally, surprised but slightly angry at the same time. I raise my eyebrows. 

Her hands are making more messages than her face. Her face is like a blank page. But, suddenly, a shadow of something crosses her face. Desperate hope shines like a gray light in her eyes, and her mouth is open and waiting. "Tell me something, Travis. Make me think. Please." 

At her words, I feel something amazing rush to my throat. Something nostalgic and graceful enters my body. There is a pounding in my head, a rush of adrenaline growling through my veins. And yet, despite everything tremendous and grand in that moment, a transcendent calm smogs my brain, leaving me a feeling, one that I hadn't felt in years: Peace. Lovely and amazing peace. 

Something must have changed. When I look back on it years later, I would suppose something might have changed in my continence. That would be the most rationale expression. But, however rational as it seems, there was something so much more in the brief second that it defies explanation. 

The room changes. It turns against us, for the first time. This world defies us, and I feel defiance for the first time in years. The submission to tyranny is gone; the revolution is near. Or it always had been. We had just ignored that part of our souls that grabbed life by the neck, shouting at it in the face, "I'm meant for more than this! I will not give in! I will not settle for safety! I will not settle for conformity!" 

Lily notices it too. Her large eyes open wide in silent realization. Something like a whimper emits itself out of her mouth as she staggers back. Tripping and falling, she quickly picks herself up before looking at me in horror. 

"What's happening, Travis?" 

I sigh. "You're feeling again, Lily." 

She stares at her hands, as if she has never seen them before. Then, she looks back up at me, her eyes still wide and fearful. Shaking her head, her hair catches at the side of her moistened mouth. Lily places a hand against the wall before looking around the room. Then, she stares at me, appraising eyebrows raised. 

I know what she is thinking instantly. Realizing it, I rush towards her. However, Lily suddenly realizes that I have caught onto her plan. She shrieks in sheer fright before quickly turning on her heel, her arms outstretched for the door. 

But I'm quicker than her. In fact, I can't ever remember being more quicker. Calmly, I stride towards the door with a few graceful and large steps before placing my hand confidently on the door. 

Whimpering, Lily tugs on the doorknob desperately before nearly screaming at me, "Let me go, Travis!" 

"No." 

She looks at me with the most reckless eyes I have ever seen. Tears are falling down her face freely now, and I finally know that the pain was setting in. For the first time in years, Lily feels every emotion that she has kept caged underneath fake okays and pursed lips. 

"Oh God, Travis! Just let me go!" She screams again as if I didn't hear her the first time. When I simply hold the door in place, with her tugging at the door in a futile struggle, she looks at me square in the eye, before saying, her voice so deep and genuine, shivers run up her spine, "I hate you, Travis Strong." But she is not saying that at all; her words instead imply the exact opposite of what she has stated. 

Our eyes are locked so intensely on one another that I'm sure that I might melt. Lily's lips are trembling rapidly, like they usually do when she isn't quite sure what to do with herself. The room is so terrifically quiet, you can hear the quiet scratches of the insects inside the school's walls, the distant slam of lockers, the quiet drumming of our heartbeats. 

_Tick, Tick, Tick_. The clock on the wall plays it's ancient hymn, one I haven't heard in what seems like forever. _Tick, Tock, Tick._

A dull ache goes up my arm, and my knuckles on my hand are white from holding the door fast. Lily has given up trying to pry the door open and is simply glaring at me through the teardrops that are hanging on her eyelashes. 

Something gurgles in her throat, but it never blooms into existence. As she trembles all over, Lily's emotions explode in a quiet rage. With a quick intake of breath, her hand reaches up behind her head, grabs a bit of her hair before tugging at it in complete agony. And then, with a agonizing groan, she makes a quick movement, slapping her hand over my face, sending stinging shivers rolling down my neck. 

Staring at me with horrified eyes, Lily blinks in terror at what she has just done. Her chest heaving with heavy and agonizing breaths, she shakes her head. "Oh god, oh god," she mumbles, almost incoherently, before reaching her hand up hesitantly to touch my face. Her fingers press innocently at first, but then her hand slides fully onto my face before reclining further onto my neck, her tingling fingers resting on my spine. 

And although my face is seared her own red handprint, her fingers are now cool and gentle. Staring down at her hand, my eyes gaze nonchalantly there before they trail up her arms, finally resting on her face. 

Her eyes are concentrated on her hand, now pressed against my neck. However, as Lily feels my gaze, her eyelashes flicker as she stares ahead in blank surprise. Her pale eyes slowly glide towards me, as if in slow motion, and her mouth hangs open with anticipation. 

"Say something," Lily finally mummers, her words slurring together as if she is underwater. "Say anything." 

Her words ring in my head like an empty room. Staring at her, I feel the words sink down in me before residing in the pit of my stomach. I search Lily's face, noticing odd things I've never noticed before, like the freckle that is the middle of her left eyelid. Or the slight lines at the corners of her eyes, ghosts of the smiles that once graced her face. And the round spot of red on her bottom lip, as it trembles in strange uncertainty. 

Without a brevity of a second, I bend my head down, pressing my lips hard on hers, drinking her in. Lily responds as if this is habit, her hand on the back of my neck reaching up into my hair and pulling, as if she has been impatient for so long for this exact second she might go insane if she does not have something to tear through. 

Somehow, we stumble ourselves backwards, so that Lily's back is smashed up against the wooden door frame. She groans at making impact with the hard surface, but she doesn't break our grasp. And I don't either, as if this moment was the only reason I was meant to live. 

She tastes like some sort of exotic fruit that I once had when I was living in Uruguay. It had the odd resonance of something that had grown fresh and sparkling into the sunlight, blossoming from a fragrant flower somewhere deep in unspoiled wilderness. 

The tardy bell rings when we break apart, breathless and mentally exhausted. When I draw back, I can taste the oddly metallic taste of blood rush over my tongue and I realize that Lily has bitten my lip. Or maybe I had bitten my own. Everything is such of rush of color I can't tell the difference between the both of us. 

Lily simply stands, her eyes wide and her hair array. I catch her eye and raise an eyebrow, as if to ask her some sort of question I can't voice. 

And then, something terrific and beautiful flutters throughout the room. A wide grin on her face, Lily throws back her head and laughs. Not darkly, not cynically. No, these weren't bathroom chuckles that rolled somewhere deep in the throat. There was no memory of a Maggie, standing stiff, a crooked and knowing grin spread across her face while she said, "Oh, Travis, you're such a prat to yourself. Such a demon, really. But kiss me again, wicked Travis, if it will make you feel better. But it won't, you know that. . . right?" 

A thin smile spreads across my face. Lily catches it and something gray lights in her eye. 

"Marry me?" She asks quietly, so quiet I can tell that she half-hopes I don't hear her. 

But I do. Twisting my mouth in a knowing expression, I lean my head against the cold cement wall before saying, "Someday, maybe." 

"Maybe?" She asks before raising an eyebrow. Walking over to her backpack, she picks it up and slings it over her shoulder. And then, with a quick glance behind her, she smiles at me before saying, "I can wait, Travis. I have waited." 

"I know." 

Something tugs at the corner of her lips. "Of course you know." And with her hand on the doorknob, she opens her mouth to bid me farewell, but something thrills my body. 

"Let's leave, Lily," I suddenly say before even really thinking about it. And then, calming myself, I shake my head, but I do not give up on my thought-process. "Let's get out of here." 

Her hand unfurls on the doorknob as she stares at me inquiringly. "And go where?" 

Looking off to the side, I survey the classroom, quiet and disarrayed at the same time. Swallowing thickly, I run a hand through my hair before turning back to Lily. Smirking, I say, "We're just learning to grow, Lily." Her mouth moves to say something, but nothing comes out. Instead, she clamps her mouth shut, smiles before nodding her head in agreement. 

"Well, kiss me then," She says finally while holding the door open, her eyes lighted in familiar mischief. 

And I do. And then, taking her hand, we walk down the cold and now pacified hallways of Roscoe High. The classrooms we pass are humming with activity, but it all seems a bit like a lucid dream. Images, people swim around us as we reach the front doors of the hallway. 

Maggie's face comes into my view, twisted and beautiful. I can see her knowing smirk plastered across her face as she shakes her head and says, "Of course, you stupid fools. Of course they left. What did you think anyway? That they'd stay and be broken? No, no, no. . . nothing can break them now; they're already broken. Oh, Travis, what morons you left behind." 

And Ray of course. Ray with his wild wave of black hair, looking confused and hurt with the same kind of expression. "Well," he would say, "Well. I just. . . hm. Why would she leave? Oh god, Lily! She broke my heart, you know! She breaks it everyday, still!" And then Robbie will say something like, "Shut-up, Ray. You're not the only one with a broken heart. So, just shut-up." 

And Audrey will draw up her lip and say, "Heavens. Heavens." 

But what they all say? Roscoe. . . what would it say? What would the school buzz about for days? Would the rumor mill start going, throwing out explanations that went from the insulting to the bizarre? 

For once, I don't care. Instead, I grip Lily's hand, rubbing my thumb over the top of her hand. We push open the door before stepping outside into the fascination. 

---------------------- 

_Another Author Note and beg for reviews: Ah, yes. Don't tell me I didn't warn you of it's weirdness. BTW, I don't hate Ray. Poor Ray. He rather got the short-stick in this ficcy, didn't he? I'll write a fic for him later on where he gets the girl (just not Lily; I'm so cruel ;)). But, anyways, please, please, PLEASE take a second out of your busy life and give me a ickle note. It would be most appreciated, mostly because my mailbox has been empty for the past week. How sad is that? Please, don't drive me further into insanity and not review. Alright, thanks muchly! See ya'all around soon, mostly because all I do nowadays is write fanfic. Or so it seems._


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